


Our American Cousin

by ItsMadUpstairs



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Downton Abbey - Freeform, Lady Sybil Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-04 06:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsMadUpstairs/pseuds/ItsMadUpstairs
Summary: A Downton Abbey story focused on season 3 and an outsider's perspective on the birth of Tom and Sybil's daughter. Sybil Lives.





	1. She Never Called Him Uncle

She never really forgave Robert for what happened. Violet said in times like these, one always looks for someone to blame. But in this case it was a simple reality. The man could not conceive of a situation in which he did not have authority, willing to defer only to another man with a title. Tom was right that day in the room at the Grantham Arms, "Your problem is the same as the rest of your lot. You think you have a monopoly on honor." And there was no honor in Robert the night of the birth, or in the days following. No honor in ignoring his son-in-law's status as next of kin. No honor in avoiding his daughter and her illness because it showed him she was not coming back, big with his ex-driver's child. She was Mrs. Branson, mother to a new generation of Bransons, children who would be so very different from him.

Constance Levinson never called Robert "Uncle." She could see why others thought so well of him. He was reasonable, comparatively anyway. He took seriously the job of guardianship over the estate, including its tenants. Robert Crawley was, on the whole, a kind man. But he was a man of his time and station, and that was incompatible with her own modern philosophies. Robert Crawley was a good friend so long as he was comfortable. And like her grandmother Martha said, a friend only in times of comfort is no true friend.

When she came to Downton, she watched them all in the drawing room, the dining room, in any of the numerous silk wallpapered rooms of the grand house. Her family was the reason these particular people sat in these rooms, yet she was always an outsider (gratefully) looking in, this American girl in Yorkshire. Sybil was always good to make eye contact with, as was Mary and even Edith. Her warm aunt Cora had instilled some minute Americanism in her cousins, just enough to resist the rigidity of their world.

In the weeks after the birth, Constance did her best to avoid being alone with Robert, lest she say something that could not be taken back. Instead, she made herself useful, accompanying her aunt to the hospital to see Sybil, sitting with her cousin when Cora was catching up on sleep. She rocked the baby, walking back and forth across the hospital room and then in the Downton nursery after Dr. Clarkson had given his approval for the baby to go home several weeks before her mother. Her little niece (her cousin technically, but niece for all intents and purposes) was a lively thing. "You'll be fierce like your mother," Constance said as Sybbie looked up at her. Sybil Saoirse. Constance had rather enjoyed the look Tom's face when he announced his daughter's name to the rest of the family. He looked calm, exhausted, and supremely happy. It was a stark contrast to Robert's face, clearly not having considered that Sybil and her husband would give their daughter an Irish name. He had also clearly not considered that they would be baptizing her a Catholic, the news of which had Robert almost choking on his breakfast. Constance had rather enjoyed that too.


	2. Breath, Love

       She was eight when she had first come to Downton in 1904. Constance and Sybil were separated only by seven months, Sybil being a summer baby and Constance a winter one. She looked wide-eyed at the castle that her cousins lived in. Constance asked her grandmother Martha if her cousins were princesses, sense they lived in a castle. "Ladies, sweetheart. Your uncle Robert's the earl and your aunt Cora's the countess." This impressed little Constance all the more. If this place housed "just Ladies" as her family joked, what other places did this land hide for princesses to live in?

      Constance had met her aunt and uncle twice before, the first time the summer she was five and the second the previous November. Her uncle Robert had celebrated his first Thanksgiving, an event that caused Constance to learn that there were places in the world different from New York and her home. In the years following, she would come to learn that not all people took to that lesson so easily, especially among the English aristocracy that her aunt married into. Constance, an only child, had been excited to meet her cousins. They could be her sisters for the holiday season. She took to them quickly, something that pleasantly surprised the adults. The little New Yorker had been mesmerized by her older cousin Mary, who at 12, was every bit the Lady that Downton reared her to be. Martha was amused by her elegant English granddaughter, never having considered that a 12 year old could be elegant. Or was regal a better word?

 

***1920***

      It was for Mary and Matthew’s wedding that Constance traveled to Downton for the first time since the war. She wanted to see Europe again before it tangled itself in another trans-continental blood bath, she wrote jovially to her aunt Cora. Constance arrived in Yorkshire that spring with her grandmother Martha, glad to be out of the city heat. It was uncertain how long her stay would be, but Constance quickly fell back into the Downton rituals. She was amused at how Mary and Edith could snipe at each other like modern English gladiators.

     As she helped Sybil up from the drawing room couch, she said, "I hope you know this kid is going to call me Auntie." Sybil laughed and said "Obviously." It was the same day that Constance had noticed her cousin's ankles, once so slender, had ballooned so greatly that they merged with her feet. She teased her a bit. "Has Aunt Cora shared any stories about chubby ankles?" Sybil shook her head, "No, Mama was apparently spared this particular trophy of motherhood." She was quiet for a moment. "The headaches too."

    Constance raised one eyebrow. "Have you asked your physician if there's anything he might give you?"

    It was here that they were interrupted Carson announcing that they should move into the dinning room.

         ***The Night Of***

     "Am I on duty Dr. Clarkson? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I'm still in bed."

     "Branson seems upset. Won't someone go ask him what's wrong?"

      It went on and on like this. It was a different year in Sybil's mind. She didn't seem to remember she was married, let alone in labor. Constance approached the doctor.

     "Excuse me Dr. Tapsell, but my cousin is delirious. She doesn't know what year it is; she just called her husband Branson."

     "Well," the Dr. Tapsell shrugged, "That is his name isn't it?"

      A small cold stone formed in Constance's stomach and yet the temperature in the room seemed to increase by several degrees. She walked swiftly as she could down the stairs and into the library. She tapped Dr. Clarkson on the shoulder. "Something's wrong." She was right. She had wanted to be wrong but she was right. The ship was running aground and its two self-appointed captains were too comfortable to notice. Time went by fast and yet exceedingly slow. She hadn't spoken to Tom in what seemed like hours. What did he want to do? Constance found him outside Sybil's room; her cries could be heard throughout the entire floor.

     "Are they taking her to the hospital for a cesarean?"

      Tom's eyes widened. "Caesarian?"

      He had no idea. They hadn't told him. Robert hadn't told him. Dr. Tapsell exited the room next and Tom turned around.

      "You said nothing was wrong."

      "Nothing is wrong," the older man replied.

       Constance snapped. "He's lying. Dr. Clarkson has been trying to convince them to take Sybil to the hospital for an hour. I just assumed they had told you about it."

       The argument went on for some time and was so loud that the sounds of a child's crying were almost drowned out. The relief was instantaneous. But it did not last long. In the chaos that followed it was easy to forget the actual chain of events. Edith running to the car in her nightdress, Tom and Matthew lifting Sybil from the bed and carrying her down the stairs with Mary and Cora close behind. The jerking of Sybil's body as though she were being electrocuted from the inside, the strangled sounds coming from her throat as she fought to breath. Dr. Clarkson pulling out glass viles and tapping syringes and Tom and Cora attempted to still Sybil on her hospital bed. Magnesium sulfate, Clarkson said, "for the seizures." The fits were not as terrifying as the stillness. They stood there waiting for…something. For her to breath, for her the flutter her eyelids. Finally she did breath, not very deeply but enough. The fits continued but Sybil's face remained pink and not blue. Dr. Clarkson kept her on her side to keep her from swallowing her tongue, finding her something to bite on. The chaos had made it easy to forget what actually happened. But Constance saw him standing there in the corner of the room, Robert looking stunned and confused in his silk nightclothes. She took Sybil's hand in her own and put the other on her aunt's shoulder. Her eyes, however, were on her uncle.


	3. The Footman's Tale

***The Morning After the Birth***

As the sun crept up through the hospital windows, it illuminated the exhaustion on the family's faces. Mary and Edith went back to house to fetch Cora some clothes. She could not be moved from her daughter's side. Robert paced the hallway, his loafers making the only detectable sound. Constance was hardly conscious of her own footsteps as she walked into the hall. Robert's back was turned to her. With all of her visits to Downton, enjoying the foreignness of the grand estate and the company of her aunt and cousins, Constance had always wished she could love her uncle. Perhaps she did like him, when he was in good spirits anyway. He could be warm and was a loving father to his daughters. Yes, Constance liked Robert when he was in good spirits. "But a friend only in times of comfort in no true friend," she could here Martha say. Determined to stay comfortable, Robert had nearly killed his daughter. Tapsell had to be right. He had an office on Harley Street in London. Tapsell had a "Sir" in front of his name. If this "Sir" had not actually checked on Sybil more than twice a full week before the birth, that was perfectly acceptable. It was as though all reservations about Robert over all the years had been a foreshadowing of this day. What is just anger she felt, starring at the back his aristocratic head? No, it was something more. Disgust.

***1919***  
Thomas Barrow was always something of a two sided coin. During his earliest years, there was nothing particularly different between himself and his siblings or peers. Around the age of 10, however, when the boys in his class began teasing the girls the first inklings of difference became known to Thomas. He had shrunk from the others, lest they notice anything and in turn they retreated from him. He had not made many friends during his school days, usually taking a seat in the back of the school room. It was there that he learned to observe. If one did not have friends it was necessary to have information as one's commodity. When Thomas was 12, his classmate Danny Cropper had told him he would reveal to all the others that Thomas was a deviant (a word Danny had just learned). Thomas quickly responded that he would tell their teacher that Danny had stolen the money that had been in her coat pocket. Thus Thomas won his first victory in this life.

After coming to Downton and forming a friendship with Sarah O'Brien (or the closest thing to a friendship he had) Thomas honed his skills of observation. His lonely childhood had turned him mean and O'Brien was something of a mentor in the art. Mr. Carson was a fair enough boss, so long as everyone kept their heads down and hands busy at their work. The ladies of the house provided plenty of material for Thomas and O'Brien to snicker over. Lady Mary's cold demeanor was tempered with the good manners her parents (or governess) had instilled in her. Thomas often had the sense that Lady Edith would be just as haughty as her elder sister if she were better at the craft. Lady Sybil was a different one altogether, but oddly seemed to get on well with both sisters. She would often deflect arguments at the dinner table by teasing the both of them at once. When Lady Grantham's niece visited the effort was cut in half. This American cousin, "Constance? Catherine?" Thomas thought it was (he could never remember as he always referred to her as Miss Levinson) was more of an astringent than a balm with her opinions on politics and social causes. However, she laughed often, which was infectious around the Crawley dinner table.

After returning from French trenches and starting work at the village hospital, he found himself in unexpected proximity to the youngest daughter of the estate. Lady Sybil, or Nurse Crawley as she preferred to be called while in her uniform, had always been gracious. She was gracious to everybody, so Thomas did not think this was particularly special in his case. The lady was a hard worker and she was surprisingly helpful on the ward. Lord Grantham's youngest daughter never hesitated in cleaning the most ghastly wounds and she moved soldiers twice her weight with efficiency. Thomas actually found himself offering her a cigarette during a break behind the hospital. She declined at first but then showed some curiosity, so the footman Thomas Barrow had lit the Lady Sybil's first cigarette for her. They stood leaning against the brick wall of the building, the medic and the nurse, he holding his cigarette with practiced ease and she holding hers with awkward uncertainty. Thomas chuckled to himself that this was likely the only time a Crawley would display less grace than he.

It was almost a year after starting work at the hospital that Thomas came to realize he considered the youngest Crawley girl to be a friend. It was one evening before Carson rang the dressing gong when the butler said, "Lady Sybil must..."  
"Nurse Crawley," Thomas said, cutting off Carson. It was the first and last time Thomas Barrow interrupted Carson but he had made his point.


	4. The Grantham Arms

It had been just under two weeks since Sybil's labor and transfer to the village hospital. The usually vibrant youngest Crawley was unconscious much of the time, kept that way with the drugs used to treat her seizures. But her heart remained strong and each member of the family swore that Sybil grabbed their hands back when they took hers in their own. With Dr. Clarkson confidant that she would make a full recovery, albeit with patience on the part of the family he warned, the tension in the house had subsided quite a bit. Cora was willing to leave Sybil's side for the night while still going back at least once a day. Mary, Edith, and Constance took turns accompanying Tom on his visits. That was another thing that had improved significantly. The first week Tom practically had to be force-fed. His usually clean-shaven face was covered with what was almost a full beard because he couldn't hold his razor without shaking. Finally, Constance had sat him down and did it for him. "We want Sybil to be able to recognize you Tom," she tried to joke.  
Thomas Barrow served drinks after dinner in the drawing room. "Lady Mary, Lady Edith, Miss Levinson."  
"Good to see you haven't lost any of your charm Barrow," Constance said as he walked off. Mary and Edith were conversing, civilly in fact, about some new tenant farmer on the estate. They wouldn't wonder where she had gone.  
Constance walked up behind the footman.   
"Barrow, wait," she said in a hushed tone. "Meet me outside the staff kitchen in half an hour."  
Thomas raised his eyebrows. He would never have shown such a reaction to one of the Crawleys, but she was merely Her Ladyship's American niece, not a Crawley or a lady. Constance smirked.   
"Don't look so surprised Barrow. It's nothing you haven't been asked before. Just not by a woman." She walked away before he could react.  
Half an hour later Thomas was waiting outside the staff door, a cigarette lit. Constance approached him, walking casually as though asking the Downton Abbey footman to meet with her under dark of night was something she did regularly. "Give me one of those," she said, nodding towards the cigarette. Thomas took out another one and started to light it for her when she took out her lighter from a cleverly hidden pocket in the side of her dress.  
"You're a sly bastard right Barrow?" said Constance, looking him dead in the eyes. "I was wondering if you might do something for me."

*** 1919 ***

The Grantham Arms had stood as long as the village. Some locals joked that it had been longer. The tavern greeted all manners of people, Yorkshire farmers, traveling merchants, tradesmen, and on rare occasions the Earl of Grantham. Of course everyone in the village new Robert Crawley by sight but it was not often he passed through the doors of the Grantham Arms, so when he did it did not go unnoticed. John Lawrence had tended the bar for many years and he had learned to keep one eye on the main room at all times, lest a patron should try to skip out on a bill. He was the one who showed Tom Branson to his room upstairs in the early spring of 1919. Lawrence was also the one who directed the Earl of Grantham up to that same room the following day, though he could not have conceived of what business those two had together away from the Abbey. After a few moments, Mr. Lawrence thought he heard raised voices, the words "honor" and "reason" peppered the conversation. He did his best to look busy when Lord Grantham came down the stairs, his face indicting that he had not accomplished what he set out to do.  
It was a few days later when the housekeeper Mrs. Desmond was cleaning Mr. Branson's room for the next guest when a piece of paper was found stuck between the two loose floor boards. It appeared to have been left there by accident, it was crumpled and torn as though in anger. The housekeeper was about to toss it in the bin when she saw the name of the Earl of Grantham on it, as well as written value of a rather large amount of money. It was a cheque. Mrs. Desmond did not consider herself the snooping sort, but then again not much exciting news came to Downton Village. She slipped it into her pocket and went about her work.  
Hours later when she was back downstairs, she asked Mr. Lawrence in as casual a voice as she could if the Earl of Grantham had patronized the tavern recently. Lawrence looked up from the glasses he was cleaning. "Yes, actually. He was speaking with a young Irishman upstairs." The housekeeper took the torn check from her apron pocket. "A Mr. Tom Branson?" "I believe so," Lawrence replied. "How did you know?" The housekeeper huffed, "His name's written on the cheque. Looks as though Lord Grantham was trying to give him a sizable gift." Lawrence couldn't help it. "It didn't sound very amicable when they were upstairs. Grantham left looking even angrier than he did when he walked in."  
The housekeeper laughed. "I suppose if you spend enough time anywhere, something interesting is bound to happen."


	5. The Footman's Tale Part II

Constance always had a fondness for Violet Crawley. It was ironic perhaps given the reservations she held about her son. Violet was from a place so far removed from Constance's 20th century American upbringing, but was pragmatic enough to recognize certain necessary flexibility, something Lord Grantham was not often willing to do. During the war, Constance had been touched after Sybil wrote in one of her letters how Violet had bullied the Downton reverend into marrying William Mason to Daisy the kitchen maid in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She'd been somewhat surprised, but not shocked that Violet had shed a few tears during the ceremony.  
After Constance had graduated from Wellesley in 1918, she had received a letter of congratulations from her great-aunt, saying that if a woman did not hold a title, she might as well be educated. Martha and Constance's mother Joan had rolled their eyes but Constance had laughed. Every year at Christmas Constance received some form of emerald green clothing from Violet. The dowager said to her "If your hair ever decides what color it would like to be, the green will flatter either way," referring to Constance's dark red tresses which transformed shades by season and sunlight.  
After meeting Isobel Crawley, Constance thought to herself that if she ever had a daughter she might name her Violet Isobel, just to rib the dowager. The thought of a little American girl, carrying the name of a liberal middle class woman melded with her own, spouting women's emancipation in the streets of Manhattan would send old Lady Grantham into quite the humorous frenzy.  
As Constance sat across from Violet in the Dower House drawing room, she debated with herself whether or not she should speak the thoughts that had been haunting her. Constance had hoped that as Sybil's condition improved her anger would abate. It didn't. Why should Robert be rewarded simply because chance had favored Sybil? Not that she could say these things to her Aunt Cora. Cora had so much to worry about already without her niece sowing any seeds of discord. Besides, she knew Cora harbored similar feelings. Robert had slept in his dressing room every night since Sybil gave birth. Constance should leave it to her aunt to bring it up when she was ready. She felt sick every time she thought of Cora sitting beside Sybil's hospital bed, "You're still my baby, you know? You'll always be my baby." Constance watched her warm aunt, smiling even then through her tears, gripping Sybil's hand as though that would tether her to the world.  
Mary had always been good to talk to. Constance and Sybil were united in their view of Mary Crawley, knowing that she had warmth between her icy exterior. However, Mary was too loyal to her father to be able to face his degree of responsibility in what had happened. Not yet anyway. She wished to talk to her mother but Joan Levinson was at home in New York with her father Harold and Martha. God, she wished Joan or Martha had stayed England with her! Constance could only reach her mother and the rest of her family by telegram or letter and that would take far too long to get a response. She needed to express her thoughts to someone or she feared she'd burst. It would have to be left to Violet. The Dowager would either say something that would make her feel better or worse, and she didn't see how she could feel worse.  
"So my dear. Are you going to say whatever it is that you came here to say? Or are we to continue drinking all my tea while you sit and have a conversation in your head? We might make an Englishwoman of you yet," Violet began.  
Constance laughed, perhaps for the first time in weeks. She sat up in her chair (she never sat quite straight enough for her great-aunt). Her mind was so full of words. She could not think of the right ones to use.

****1919****

Thomas Barrow sat in the Grantham Arms in need of a drink before he went back to Downton after his interview. The war was over and so was his position as the hospital. Carson had made himself clear that Thomas was either to resume his job as a footman or move on from Downton, but there would be no moving upward. Thomas, like Lady Sybil, had found something more for himself during the war and as taboo as it was to say aloud, there was a type of mourning that came with its end.  
The position of under-butler at a nearby estate was available, having been vacated by a man who now resided in the village cemetery. It seemed half the staffs of so many great houses, as well as the able bodied sons, returned home in wooden boxes if they returned at all. The interview was a long shot. Thomas Barrow knew his days as a footman continued to stretch in front of him and he might as well be grateful.  
He paid his bill just as the tavern's housekeeper descended the stairs. She was showing something to the bartender. It was nothing of value, it seemed, only a crumpled piece of paper. When he heard the word "Earl" however, the footman's ears perked up. The housekeeper certainly found whatever it was to be interesting. She chuckled to herself and tossed it into the bin next to the counter. As Thomas walked to the door he stooped and quickly picked it up without looking at it. He always found it was best not to pass up new information.  
Walking outside, he waited until he was several meters away before reading the paper. It was a cheque written by Lord Grantham made out to the chauffeur. "Or former chauffeur," he thought. From the events of the other night, Thomas knew this was no good will parting gift. He slipped the note into his coat pocket. Unlike the Grantham Arms housekeeper, Thomas Barrow never threw away knowledge.


	6. Stones Overturnd

****The Day After the Birth****

She was heading upstairs for a rest. The past day had kept Constance propelled forward on adrenalin and fear. Now the pent up exhaustion was hitting her all at once. Constance was halfway down the hall when she all but tripped over Thomas Barrow. The footman was crouched down by an end table, wiping at the finishing with a towel. At least, that it was had been his intent when he was overcome with heaving. The footman was not one for displays of emotion, or allowing himself to have many for that matter, but his dry sobs escaped his throat. He barely registered the foot that hit his knee.  
"Didn't know you were one for tears, Barrow. But perhaps I should have."  
He looked up into the face of Her Ladyship's niece. She was smiling, her own eyes as strained as his own. Thomas moved to stand, but Constance knelt down, putting her hands around his wrists.   
"She'll wake up. I know she will. She'll wake up, she'll wake up…." Constance's face was covered in tears now and she was shaking against him. At the far end of the hallway, Carson made his rounds. The butler saw the Downton footman and the Countess of Grantham's niece hugging one another, chocked sobs coming from both of them. Fraternizing with those above-stairs would normally have gotten the staff reprimanded. This particular day, Charles Carson would say nothing. After all, had lent comfort to Lady Mary in past crisis. Carson moved along as he always did.  
Slowly, Constance and Thomas lifted themselves up off the floor. Like the footman, Constance was not prone to significant displays of emotion, thus their awkward comforting of each other spoke to the gravity of the situation. Thomas inhaled to regain his composure and they averted each other's gaze.  
"His Lordship's likely regretting Sybil's marriage more than ever. It's just one more thing," Constance tried to roll her eyes but found she didn't have the energy.  
"Likely regretting not persuading Mr. Branson better."  
"Robert Crawley's persuasions sound a lot like orders."  
This was the moment. The paper he had been keeping in his drawer for over a year was going to get a reader.  
"What I mean to say Miss Levinson, is that Lord Grantham's argument was not only one of words." Why was he doing this now? There was nothing in it for him at this particular turn. Still...  
Constance's eyes narrowed. "What did he use in addition to words?"

***

It was a week after the delivery and the Crawleys were back at the house, with the exception of Cora, who had stayed with Sybil. The air was thick as smoke, no one wanting to say anything that would break the fragile peace. Edith spoke up with what she had thought would be an innocuous question. "So have you thought of a name for the little one?" she asked Tom.  
"I'd like to call her Sybil," Tom said, slowing looking up from his plate, exhaustion written in every inch of his face.  
"Won't that be confusing?" Lord Grantham asked.  
"Sons are named after their fathers all the time," said Constance. And this father is still afraid of how close he came to being a widower. This way there will always be a Sybil walking about.  
"I'm confident in all our abilities to distinguish between Sybil and an infant," Tom said.  
"Wonderful. I'll tell Reverend Travis," said Edith, resuming her breakfast.  
"Reverend Travis' services won't be needed. My daughter is Irish. She'll be Catholic like her father," Tom said calmly as he could. Lord Grantham could not have this. He had his way thus far and now Sybil was in a hospital strapped to her bed with all manner of chemicals being injected into her. Robert Crawley could not have the child's name or her church.  
Robert continued, "There hasn't been a Catholic Crawley since the Reformation."  
This time Mary spoke. "Well, she is not a Crawley, Papa. She's a Branson. This is Tom and Sybil's daughter, Papa. It is their decision."  
Thank you Mary.  
"What decision has Sybil made?" Robert was becoming incredulous.  
She's made plenty of decisions. You've just disregarded them, thought Constance.  
"Now if you excuse me, I'm going to go see my wife." Tom stood and left the room.  
"The only chance that child has of accomplishing anything will be because of the blood of her mother," Robert said, exasperated and looking at Mary.  
"I don't agree." Mary was gentle but firm. Constance felt a swell of pride in her eldest cousin.

****Two Weeks After the Birth****

Robert Crawley was never one to take the hint the first time. Reverend Travis sat at the dinner table, a guest of His Lordship, offering unsolicited spiritual guidance.  
Constance took several sips from her wine glass. Her eyes bounced between Tom, Mary, Matthew, and Edith.  
"Isn't there something rather un-English about the Roman Church?" asked Travis.  
"Since I am an Irishman, that's not likely to bother me," said Tom.  
"I cannot feel the bells and incense, and all the rest of that pagan falderal is pleasing to God," continued the Reverend.  
"I attended Mass once while I was in Rome. All that kneeling and gesturing, I thought I was at a gymnastic exercise," said Robert.  
"I see. So He is not pleased with the population of France or Italy?" That was Mary.   
"Not as pleased as He is by the worship of the Anglicans, no."  
"Have you ever asked Him?" Constance said, finally turning to Travers. She did not yet trust herself to look at Robert.  
"South America? Portugal? Have they missed the mark too?" That was Matthew.   
"I do not mean to sound harsh."  
You don't mean to sound respectful either.  
"I'm sure there are many individuals from those lands who please Him."  
"And the Russians? And the Spanish?" It was Edith's turn.   
"There must be many good Spaniards."  
"And we haven't even started on the non-Christians."  
"There's the whole Indian subcontinent to begin with."  
"And the British Empire. Does He approve of that?"  
"If you mean does He approve of the expansion of the Christian message, then yes, I think He does."  
"And so do I. Poor Mr. Travis. You're all ganging up on him." Robert spoke.  
"Well you and Granny are ganging up against Tom," insisted Mary.  
"Not me. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk is a dear friend. And she's more Catholic than the Pope," Violet said.  
Constance smirked. It quickly disappeared from her face when Robert spoke.  
"Am I only the one to stand up for Sybil? What about her wishes?"  
Sybil's wishes? The man had some gall.  
"Sybil will be happy for the child to be a Catholic," Mary said.  
"How do you make that out?"  
"She told me. On the day she had the baby."  
"I am flabbergasted."  
"You are always flabbergasted by the unconventional."  
"But in a family like this one…"  
"Not everyone chooses their religion to satisfy Debrett's."  
"Oh come now, Robert. An Irish Catholic girl with an English accent can't the strangest thing in the world. No stranger than an Episcopalian named Levinson," Constance couldn't resist.  
"I am sure your minister at home would agree with me Miss Levinson," Travis said.  
Constance laughed. "Oh I haven't had a minister since I left secondary school. I'm an agnostic." She picked up her knife and fork and resumed work on her dinner. Travis looked horrified.

Hours went by and most of the house had retired. Constance remained in the library, she knew that attempting to sleep would be futile. Besides, she had an appointment to keep. She helped herself to Robert's best scotch and perused the shelves. Constance knew she was only bidding time until the inevitable happened. Thus far, she had maintained the blueblood ritual of passive anger while expressing her distain with barbed humor and diminishing her uncle's supply of expensive liquor. However, every passing day seemed to present her with mounting reasons for rage. There would be a confrontation.  
Thomas Barrow entered the library. "I have it."  
Constance turned around. She took the paper from his hand, torn with its crumples smoothed out, now yellowed after almost two years. She looked at the cheque, the written value long smudged out but with Lord Grantham's name still clear.  
Constance half-heartedly chuckled. "I asked you for this because I know you're fond of my cousin. And I've told myself that this would do some sort of good for her," she shrugged her shoulders. "But is this just to validate myself? I think I've felt more anger in these past few weeks than I have in my entire life."  
"Anger and love often go together Miss Levinson. I know you love Lady Sybil very much." Thomas spoke in aloof sincerity.  
"Lord Grantham loves her too. I know that but I just…" Constance's words failed her.  
"But if it's truth you're interested in finding, there is something else."  
Once a truth is known, one can't un-know it. She swallowed. "Tell me."  
"Just after the war, there was a housemaid on staff, a woman named Jane."


	7. Master of the House

      It was a nice luncheon. Mrs. Crawley was a gracious hostess and Mary and Edith were getting on. Edith was still in a vulnerable state following her failed wedding and not even Mary could chide her as she usually did. Mary had gone so far as to encourage Edith in meeting with the London editor she had written to. With Sybil still in the hospital but on the mend, Cora and the rest of them were too exhausted and relieved to be tense. However, sometime between Constance passing Violet a splash of milk for her tea and putting a lump of sugar in her own, the door to the dinning room opened. That was where the pleasantness ended.

     "Everyone get up. We're leaving," the earl said.

     It was a pompous display when he actually demanded the group leave a house that was not his own and humiliated Ethel as she brought in the tray. The whole thing was really just a continuum of the past two years: cold superiority, a lack of compassion, and something Constance found particularly unforgivable, a lack of self-awareness. Did this man have no idea how ridiculous he was, going on about the maid's "bastard" child, with what Constance knew about him? The one silver lining was the solidarity the women had shown. No one had so much as inched their chairs backwards.

     This was it. She'd been silent so far, giving him rope after rope, every one longer than the last. Constance might be able to accept all these instances separately. The dalliance with the maid had surprised her but what were a few kisses in thirty years of marriage? She had never been married; she could hardly judge. The insistence on listening to Tapsell might be rationalized as a father being afraid of listening to Clarkson, who had after all, been mistaken about the severity of Matthew's war injury. _But it was obvious something was wrong with Sybil. She called her husband Branson._ Robert's rejection of anything but an Anglican baptism for his granddaughter might be seen as...traditionalism? Constance told herself all this over and over again. _Except Violet hadn't brought up resistance to the child being Catholic._ She knew her rightful place and respected Tom's. She had sent Sybil and Tom the money to come to Mary's wedding. "I wanted my granddaughter and her husband here for this occasion," she had said. Violet's oft-biting tongue still spoke with love. No, there were no more excuses to be given to Robert.

     Constance left Crawley House with her aunt, cousins, and Violet in the late afternoon. She was calm. Waiting until Cora, Edith, and Mary had gone upstairs to change their clothes, Constance walked to the library. Robert always could be found there at this time of day. She did not knock.

    "That was quite a performance." Robert looked up from his desk. Seeing it was his niece, he exhaled and turned back to the papers in front of him.

    "Not now if you please Constance, it has been a trying day."

     Constance took another step into the room and closed the door behind her. "It's been a trying series of days for all us. " She made sure to speak slow and collected. "If you keep this going you are going to lose Sybil."

    He looked back at her.

    "She loves you. Very much. But if you do not show her and her husband respect, she will leave and not come back."

     Robert sat up straighter in his chair. "Baptizing the child a Catholic, challenging me on every turn. Branson is trying to drive her apart from her family."

     Constance looked at him and could tell he meant every word. Robert Crawley truly believed all these things. He believed that his youngest daughter had ruined her life in a fit a juvenile rebellion. He believed that his son-in-law was inferior by virtue of the fact that Tom did not think himself inferior to the Earl of Grantham.

     "Robert, if Tom wanted Sybil to turn from you he would have just told her the truth."

     The earl's eyebrows raised themselves.

     "You were right about one thing earlier, people do have a way finding things out. You didn't think anyone knew? That you tried to pay him to leave her."

    Constance was emboldened. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms were standing up but her voice was steady.

    "That you were screwing around with the new maid while my aunt was dying upstairs."

     Robert's eyes widened at that one, both in surprise, and something else, fear.

     "If he wanted to win once and for all he could have just told Sybil what a weak bastard her father is."

     Not having a counterargument at the ready, the earl referred back to a defense he had used before. "I will not be spoken to like this in my own house." He was standing now, he and Constance only a few steps from each other.

     "Which is paid for with my grandfather's money and will inevitably need to be managed by an office I oversee. I will speak how I like. The next time you want to put me in my place, remember yours: my tenant."

     There was heavy silence for several moments. "You're mortified to introduce someone who works for a living as your son-in-law? Working class money never bothered you when it saved your estate. You want to shame a woman for sacrificing herself to feed her son? You married a virtual stranger for her money. Now, I'm not a judgmental person, but I can't abide by misplaced self-righteousness. You actually think that what separates you from Ethel Parks is honor? You're a whore."

     Lord Grantham was practically shaking now. He was a mass of outrage and humiliation; he had lost this one. She knew she should stop. What realistic good could come of this? But she remembered Cora sitting beside Sybil's hospital bed, _You're my baby, you know? You'll always be my baby._ Sybil had suffocated under her father's control and Cora now suffocated in her fear. Constance would speak.

    "I am curious though. How much did you try to give him? How much did you think she was worth?" Constance's mouth involuntarily turned into a slight grin. 

    The door of the library creaked. Mrs. Hughes' face was stoic, giving no sign that she had heard anything. Constance couldn't be sure but she was past caring.

    "Pardon me, Your Lordship, but Mr. Crawley said he had an appointment to review some of the estate matters," said the housekeeper.

     Constance turned. "That's alright Mrs. Hughes, I was just leaving." She smiled at the older woman and walked past her into the hallway.


	8. The Most English Thing About Her

It was quiet and peaceful in Sybil's room. The summer day was not too hot and an open window emitted the slightest breeze. Sybil's things, the clothes (mostly for Cora and Tom when one of them spent the night) and the books read to pass the time had been packed and ready to be taken back to Downton. Dr. Clarkson, after weeks of vigilance, had pronounced Sybil out of danger. She was to return home, wherever that was.

Constance helped Sybil into her slippers.

"When do you think you'll be able to fit your feet into real shoes?" Mary asked from across the room. Sybil's feet and ankles had yet to completely return to their usual size after the edema.

"Hopefully never," Sybil laughed. "These are far more comfortable."

"Well take your time darling. There's no point to over exerting yourself; you've been through an awful lot," said Cora.

Sybil sighed but smiled. "Everyone needs to stop fussing over me. I'm not a delicate invalid."

Constance looked down at her cousin, who was still sitting on the edge of her bed. "No one would think that after all this." She cast a glance over to her aunt, who was looking at the door as though afraid that Sybil walking through it would jinx her recovery. "But you did give us quite a scare."

Sybil sat up straight. "Well, I'm ready to go home and share a room with my husband."

The women boarded into two cars, one driven by Edith with Constance and Mary, the other driven by Tom with Sybil and Cora. Several days had passed since Constance's confrontation with Robert in the library. They were cordial at dinner and did their best to avoid one another throughout the day. Robert was an English aristocrat; Constance was a blue blood New Yorker; they could both hide their feelings. The difference was that now that the floodgates were opened, Constance saw less and less point in hiding them anymore. A man with as much to lose as Robert Crawley was afraid of many things; the new world that the war had brought, the survival of his identity as an English peer, and now, her. Constance was sure that Robert was partly afraid she would spill his secrets to Cora or Sybil. God knows, it would have been satisfying. But Constance would keep silent for the time being, just as Tom had after he had ripped up Lord Grantham's cheque at the Grantham Arms. Sybil and Cora should not be burdened.

With Sybil home with her husband and daughter, Cora was beaming. Constance even felt a sense of peace when she watched Sybil pick up Sybbie and hug her to her chest for the first time since she was born.

Lord Grantham had not made many trips to the nursery after Sybbie had been brought home, instead relying on messages from the nurse the family had hired. Robert made an awkward display of holding the child, looking intently at her face as though trying to discern how much of her was Sybil and how much of her was the lunatic Irish socialist. Dear God, was he going to look like that at the christening later in the week? Any photographs taken would preserve Lord Grantham's ambivalence toward the little girl for generations to come. Maybe he thought his first grandchild would grow up and burn Downton to the ground? There was a dark part of Constance that might like to watch.

After getting Sybil settled into her bedroom, the nanny brought Sybbie in and set her in her mother's arms. Sybil practically giggled, "She's quite pretty, isn't she?" as Sybbie made small gurgles.

"So much so that I may tell Matthew to teach Tom how to shoot," Mary said. The women laughed. Laughter had been so scarce of late.

"See?" Cora said, smiling at her youngest. "Where will you get lessons like that in Liverpool?" Cora was unenthusiastic about the idea of having Sybil and the baby away from so soon after nearly loosing them both. And if she were being honest (which she usually was), her son-in-law would be missed too if the Bransons were to pack up and escape to his brother's garage. He was good conversation at dinner and had a genuine demeanor. In the time leading up to Sybbie's birth and afterwards, Tom's dedication to Sybil was obvious. The glow that emanated from Sybil when she sat beside her husband was obvious too.

"There's always New York," Constance chimed. "We'd love to have you as guests or neighbors. All of you," she said looking around to Edith and Mary but her eyes resting on Cora for just a moment longer. Robert was still sleeping in his dressing room.

The Crawley ladies departed, Constance lingering a few minutes longer. With Sybil settled in bed and the baby asleep in her arms, no one looking in would be able to tell the fight it took to assemble such a scene. The flailing, the syringes, the hushed crying and pleading were undetectable. But they had been there.

Constance sat in a chair beside Sybil's bed, reaching forward to run a hand over the baby's head. "It's hard to imagine that we were all once this soft," she said, feeling the dark tuffs of hair.

"I meant what I said, you know. About New York," said Constance after a moment.

"I know."

"Tom can definitely find work as a journalist there. And you could get a job at a hospital, maybe further your training. There's a medical college upstate that accepts women..." Constance was talking faster than she meant to. She let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a nervous exhale.

"I love you," Constance said, a bit quickly again.

Sybil raised her eyebrow just slightly and turned up one side of her mouth.

"I know."

"I know I don't say things like that very often. Partly because I think some people overuse the word. Partly because it makes me feel like a cat whose furs been pet the wrong way."

Sybil thought her usually collected cousin looked almost sheepish. "I know that too. It's the most English thing about you."

Constance laughed. "Violet said something similar not long ago."

The baby started making little sounds again without waking. The bedroom door opened and admitted Tom. Constance took this as her moment to go and leave the new family in peace. Standing up, she gave Tom a smile and a nod, which he returned.

Reaching the door, Constance said over her shoulder, "Think about it."

Sybil settled into her husband's side. "We will."

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Our American Cousin" is the name of the play Abraham Lincoln was attending when he was assassinated in 1865.


End file.
